Dry County
by Konstantinsen
Summary: The untamed American West was a vast frontier of wild adventure, untold wealth, and constant danger. However, for these immigrants, it was a whole new world far greater than what they both hoped, dreamed, and feared. [Wild West AU]
1. Chapter 1 - Yellow-belly

**NOTE: Plot bunnies.**

* * *

Move to Vale County, they said.

Wealthiest place in the West, they said.

Roads there are safe for driving cattle, they said.

Well, they apparently forgot to mention that this was the _Western frontier_. Anything could happen! And for young seventeen-year-old Jaune Arc, that notion held to its truest form with bullets whizzing past his head as he sprinted for his dear life through the rocky canyons near the rugged Mexican border.

"Got 'ya in my sights, boy!"

"Ain't use in runnin' from us, kid!"

"Get 'yer yellow-belly over here!"

Jaune Arc would proudly flaunt the colors of his family's lineage—traced all the way to the famous legendary French heroine Joan D'Arc. Such was a badge of pride and honor upheld through the generations. In this part of the world, however, yellow was apparently the flag of the weak. His legs carried him further and further into the tightening crevasse until he tripped and rolled down a shaft. By the time his body planted onto the unforgiving gravel, the voices of his pursers were mere faded echoes against the walls.

He stayed where he was until he was sure the bandits had abandoned their search for him. Also because every bone and muscle in his body ached from the fatigue of his plight. It took him a while before he picked himself up and straggled through the tunnel system.

This was bad. This was very bad!

He was lost. Not so much wounded but dazed and confused. Also, he had just survived an ambush by bandits on their return trip to Vale. Damn it! He should have known... It had only been a matter of time... This road was never always safe... The outlaw gangs had been stepping up their attacks and...

Jaune slammed his knuckles into the rock, savoring the pain that rocketed into his arm and ignoring the blood that seeped through his fresh cuts. He and dad were the only men in their family of nine. Without them, they would be easy pickings for these bastards. He needed to find dad, hopefully he made it out in time—he was the only one with the gun.

No. Stop. Breathe. Think.

Get out. Get help. Find dad. Wait, go home first, check up on the family, then find dad.

But could he really do it? He was never really much of a fighter—his could barely shoot a bottle off a table at three paces—and he doubted he could get the Pinkertons, let alone any bounty hunter, to help. The lawmen here turned out to be rather disturbingly fickle.

Jaune panted in some relief upon catching a ray of light beaming through. He soon emerged out onto the sprawling deserts of the frontier. No roads to speak of, no man-made landmarks. Just sand, dirt, rocks, and cacti. He was on his own now out in these open barrens.

"Goddamn it," he nearly cried.

No. He had to be strong. For dad. For his family. For himself. He was an Arc, a descendant of Joan D'Arc. He breathed deep and cleared his head to focus as best he could.

Jaune took the first step into the wilderness as his own man. He lasted about three or five hours before succumbing to the heat.

* * *

The first thing to come to register in his addled mind was how sweetly comfortable this bed was.

But wasn't he in the desert?

Jaune bolted upright in a modest room. Chair in the corner, table by his bedside. Bright orange sky filtered through the window. Was it dusk or dawn? It was hard to tell. He found himself dressed down to this undershirt while his knuckles appeared to have been delicately cleaned and tended to. Did someone find him?

He winced as he slipped off the bed, getting some feeling back into his limbs. The window told him he was on the second floor. He creaked the door open and slowly meandered downstairs where someone's shadow had been cast against the wall. Cooking on a pot. Come to think of it, he could smell broth. His stomach grumbled.

Step by step, he descended into the living room where his mystery caretaker had set up the table for a meal.

Said caretaker turned around, piercing emerald orbs shielded by a clean spectacles while short curls traced down her bun of blonde hair. She was not at all surprised to see him up and about.

"Oh. You're awake. That's good," she said as she filled two bowls with meat and soup.

Jaune gulped. This lady was intimidating. "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Please, sit. You clearly haven't eaten in a while," she prodded, pulling up her chair and his.

He nervously settled in. He was hungry though. "May I ask where I am?"

"Young man, you're in Beacon."

"E-excuse me?" he stammered.

The lady sighed. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"I...can't say for sure. Ma'am."

"You are in Beacon, Vale County. It's a mining town not far from the city of Vale."

Oh. So he was back in Vale County. It was quietly amazing now that he thought about it. For aimlessly wandering about in the desert, he had covered a good distance. He never heard much about Beacon but the fact that it was a mining town meant commerce. This place had to have money. Money that he could earn, good money that would go a long way to help him get back home to his family.

He had barely taken a sip from his stew when the lady let out a strangled noise. She straightened herself (as though she was not upright to begin with). "My apologies. We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Glynda Goodwitch. I manage the schoolhouse here in Beacon."

Jaune shakily bowed. "Jaune Arc, ma'am. I'm a, uh..."

"It's okay. You were found near death not far from here. I assume you were lost?"

Very much so. Lost, confused, and afraid. Maybe not so much afraid now that he was in the company of a schoolteacher. She did have that air of authority that would often be found among lawmen. _Upright_ lawmen. "Yes, ma'am. I...I was..."

Glynda observed him as he choked back tears. His shoulders quivered while his fists whitened with how tight he gripped the spoon. A moment later, she reached over to cup his hands, shocking him out of his grief. Her voice was tender. Motherly. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me what happened. You are still recovering."

"I...it... I'm sorry, ma'am," he breathed. "I'll behave myself. It's been...there's been a lot that happened and..."

She shushed him. "It's okay, young man. Take this time to rest. Eat. Before the meat gets cold."

"Thank you, ma'am."

They ate in silence until the orange light filtered into bright hues. Jaune looked out the window to see the dusty dirt streets of Beacon filling up. People stepping outside to sweep the dust off their porches, shop owners opened up their stores, workers hefting shovels and pickaxes headed off into the mines.

"How long was I out?"

"Since yesterday," Miss Goodwitch answered. "Would you like to rest a bit more or...?"

"Um, I guess I should. I'm still regaining my faculties so..."

She nodded. "Very well. You may stay until you've fully recovered. However, I don't advise you to abuse my hospitality. I am not very accommodating of freeloaders."

For a schoolteacher, it seemed her sternness carried over outside the classroom. Jaune straightened himself and, like the gentleman he was raised to be, politely bowed and said, "Yes, ma'am. If you won't mind, maybe I can help around. Earn my keep."

Miss Goodwitch paused in thought. "... I suppose so."

"Allow me to wash these for you," he offered. "You do have a school to run so I guess I could free up some of your time to help you prepare, right?"

The schoolteacher regarded him for a bit. Then hummed. "Alright. That's...thoughtful of you, Mister Arc."

He stood up and took the dishes. "Please, call me Jaune."

* * *

The schoolteacher's abode was as tidy as a Frenchman's mansion, Jaune soon found out. He was grateful Miss Goodwitch entrusted him stewardship of her dwelling and he followed through by keeping the place in top shape...despite already being in top shape. Still, he found some chores to busy himself with. Cleaning, adjusting furniture, cooking his own meals. He even dusted off the dirt from his boots and hat, though most of his clothes were still hanging out to dry.

The sun was still up in the sky when she returned.

"Good afternoon, Miss Goodwitch."

"Good afternoon, Jaune. How are you feeling?"

"Never better," he chirped.

She smiled. "Good. Would you follow me please?"

"Ma'am?"

"Put on your boots. There is a spare coat I have in the cabinet there."

Jaune wondered what it was this time as he obediently dressed himself. Slightly odd though that she had a man's coat in a wardrobe seemingly overflowing with dresses. Unless she had a husband? Or, perhaps, a secret lover? He shook his head to clear his mind and, upon stepping outside onto the street, asked, "Miss Goodwitch, where are we going?"

"To see the mayor."

Wait, what? "Pardon?"

"Mayor Ozpin is aware of your predicament and has offered to help," she relayed.

As they crossed the street, Jaune felt the weight of the many pairs of eyes leering at him. He shrunk deeper into the coat and tilted the brim of his hat to shadow his nervous expression. Despite having made a few cattle runs with his father in other towns, he was not used to this much scrutiny. Being a mining town, they were probably looking after their own wealth.

Not long after, they were at the town hall. And inside, in his office at the second floor, was the gray-haired, bespectacled Mayor Ozpin, casually sipping on his mug of ground coffee.

"Welcome," he greeted. "Have a seat, Mister Arc."

Jaune humbly eased into the cushioned chair set across the man's desk. "Sir."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Sir."

Ozpin chuckled. "Now, now. No need to be apprehensive."

Jaune looked up. So far, the man seemed friendly. Not so jovial but, in a way, comfortable to be with. He craned his head to find Miss Goodwitch standing attentively by his side. Well, at least her presence alone assuaged any fears creeping up his gullet. "Sorry, sir. Just...a bit overwhelmed, is all."

"I can understand that. Tell me, how have you come to such a state outside our town?"

The question was clear. Jaune glanced around, finding himself alone with the two adults in this office. In the corner, the grandfather clock ticked away. He breathed deep. He could trust these people, right? They didn't seem as bad. Hell, one of them nursed him back to health. They were good people; they had to be.

Jaune calmed himself, gathered his thoughts, and took a deep breath. And relayed everything. From his family's cattle driving business to the ambush by bandits at the highway crossing and his desire of returning to his family and finding help to hopefully rescue his missing father. Assuming he was still alive, of course. No, he is! The man was an Arc. Arcs don't go down easily. Otherwise, it would be a daunting task helping to support his mother and seven sisters.

Throughout his tale, Ozpin remained passively attentive. Glynda was clearly appalled. When he was done, there was a long minute of silence before the mayor cleared his throat. "That is very unfortunate. I am sorry that this has happened to you."

"That's much appreciated, sir," Jaune reciprocated. His sentiments sounded...sincere. "Miss Goodwitch said you could help me."

"I can. Not as much as you would imagine, however."

His eyes lit up with hope. "So, are you going to help me get home?"

Ozpin leaned back on his chair. "Your...family's ranch is in another state. Forgive me for being blunt but I doubt you would survive the journey on your own. Not without any money, without a horse, much less without any form of defense on your person."

That was a given. "But you're going to help me, right? Uh, bodyguards or a guide to get me there? Maybe charter a protected carriage?"

Glynda sighed while Ozpin shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mister Arc. I cannot provide with those. We may have a profitable industry but I cannot commit such a substantial amount of resources for an endeavor that many would see as...fruitless. I may be the mayor but I do not own everything. I hope you understand my position here."

Jaune deflated, hope nigh extinguished. That all was true. So much wealth locked by greed. "... I see."

"What I can do for you at this moment, however, is provide you a place to stay."

"Sir?" Was he already bunking in with Miss Goodwitch? Unless... Right. She was not very accommodating of freeloaders. She probably asked the mayor to give him a house.

"There is a small unoccupied lodge at the edge of town. It is close to one of our own wells so you would not have to worry about water. Not too far from the market as well."

Jaune bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir."

"You also mentioned that you were willing to 'earn your keep?'"

"Yes, sir."

Ozpin looked to Glynda who rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Mister Arc, so far you are a healthy young man with a proper build. Correct?"

"Uh, I believe I am...?" Crap. Was he going to be put to work in the mines?

The mayor seemed to read his mind (or the strained mien on his face) and said, "I am not that heartless to employ you immediately as a miner. But there are people around here who could use an extra pair of hands. Some of them may not be able to pay you for your efforts. However, I would provide additional incentive for every good deed you do in this town."

Jaune nearly buckled out of his seat. "For sure, sir?"

"We are a mining town, after all. I am sure the townspeople would not mind an industrious youth such as yourself to go a day hungry. Granted, you are earning your keep."

This was good. This was very good!

He stood up, practically beaming. "I won't let you down, sir! I'll help this town as best I can."

Ozpin chuckled again. "Of course, you would, young man."

* * *

It did not take long for Jaune to settle into his new home. The well was close enough to be in his own backyard while the market had indeed been a short walking distance. As a bonus, he had been given some starting money to help him get back on his feet. For some reason though, the icebox was packed with bottles of assorted liquor, some opened, some half-empty. Was the previous owner this much of an alcoholic?

He never did indulge in strong spirits, though he did have a few memorable experiences in the past. Nevertheless, Jaune decided to purge away some of the alcohol to allow space for vegetables and meat.

As the day drew to an end and he lay on his own bed in his own cottage in a town far away from home, he wondered how he was going to be doing his part in this community. He was, after all, in this for the money and the mayor was amicable enough to support him.

Besides, it was not like doing odd jobs around Beacon would be that hard, right?

Then again, this was the Western frontier. Anything can happen.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 23, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: November 24, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 23, 2018**

 **NOTE: I have never played _Red Dead Redemption_ or its sequel. I have played _Call Of Juarez: Bound In Blood_ and _Call Of Juarez: Gunslinger_ , though.**

 **Updates will be sporadic as this story will be anecdotal. I still have other fics to work on.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Crackshot

Bang. Poof. Bang. Poof.

One by one the flying clay plates disappeared into a cloud of pulverized dust scattering spectacularly before the crowd.

Then came the admirable applause, some cheers and hoots ringing along. The last cartridge expended, Pyrrha Nikos neatly cradled her Winchester repeater as she turned to face her audience. She departed the stage with a practiced smile and a curtsey bow, disappearing behind the curtains as the show runner, her boss Mister Van Der Flynt, came up to welcome the next act.

As soon as she vanished behind the curtain, she sagged onto a crate and kicked off her boots to rest her aching soles. Over a dozen shows in one day! She had never been this exhausted. Alas, the thrill from her acts kept her going. Anything to feed her desire to see more of the world. She aimed to please and if her shows provided respite to the weary, then she would gladly display her talents.

"And here I thought you were gonna fall over, honey," remarked Greta the Sequoia, her muscular build and facial hair complimenting her monicker.

"I think that's the last one I can do for today," Pyrrha replied sheepishly.

"After all that? I don't think you could shoot straight again for another week. Boss has you working hard." She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Come to think of it, he's working us all too hard."

"We do have a lot of people coming to watch."

Greta shook her head. "That ain't no reason not sit down and rest. And right now, dearie, you need to get some sleep. I can see them bags under your eyes."

"But what would—"

The brute of a lady held up a pumped hand. "I'll talk to the chief. It ain't just you aching here and there. Pete, Trager, Sam, and the twins are itching for a break."

Pyrrha bit her lip. She hoped she would not be the cause for any friction between her employer. "Don't we have a few more shows to do?"

"This is pro'lly the last one for a while. Tomorrow, it's a straight trip to Beacon." Greta flexed proudly. "Momma can rest her biceps."

The Greek sharpshooter chuckled at that. Beacon was a small mining town that had recently seen its fortunes double in recent years. That meant a blossoming community which also meant an inn with comforts that she could afford. It had been a long time since she last slept in luxury and while she had grown up modest, she would admit to being spoiled a little by her fame and the quirks that came with it.

"Don't get your hopes up," the larger woman intoned, snapping her out of her musings. "We still got a long way to go."

"As long as I can sleep all day tomorrow, I would not complain," Pyrrha answered.

The Sequoia laughed. "Since when have you ever complained?"

The noise from the audience cheering behind the curtain as the show ended drowned out the Greek's shy chuckle.

* * *

True to her word, Pyrrha slept the half the day away. She was left mostly undisturbed in her little corner in the third wagon of their caravan. Until Greta shook her awake.

"Wha...? Greta?"

"I didn't know if you wanted to see this but it's already time for lunch and you haven't eaten since dinner," the larger woman said morosely, two tin bowls of stew sloshing untouched on the chest between them as the wagon prodded onward over the rugged highway.

Pyrrha rubbed her eyes. "What do you mean? Is it...already late in the day?"

"It's around noon, I suppose." A pregnant pause. "You may not like what you're going to see outside though. Might kill your appetite. Sure as hell killed mine."

The Greek could not contain her curiosity. She clamored over to the side. "What is—oh!"

And then she saw it. Along with half the crew and the entertainers in their troupe. On the side of the road were the remains of another wagon train. Although she had seen her fair share of roadside tragedies since starting out on this band of wandering performers, this was the first time that the incident itself was so fresh that no one had yet cleaned out the bodies...or what was left of them.

Pyrrha felt last night's meal bubble up her throat. She recoiled slightly, pressing her hand to her mouth in horror.

Greta caught her. She sounded somber. "Yeah. We're probably the first people to see this."

It took awhile for the Greek sharpshooter to find her voice. "Why aren't we stopping? We should see if they need help! Someone might still be alive—"

The Sequoia sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, honey. We have to keep moving."

"But—"

"Whoever hit this could still be out there, hiding up on the rocks, waiting for someone to stop and check. It'd be another ambush."

Pyrrha deflated. As much as she wanted to stop and help, her fellow entertainer had a point. Macabre as it was, the festering corpses attracted prey as much as it attracted the vultures. Speaking of birds, someone up ahead yelled as he pointed at something among the wreckage: a dead magpie planted on top of an overturned wheel.

"Sweet Jesus!" cried Short Samuel. "That's the mark of the Branwen Gang!"

"Hurry up the caravan!" hollered a shaken Mister Van Der Flynt. "Quick! Before we end up like them!"

The wagons picked up speed as their drivers frantically snapped their reins against the horses. Pyrrha nearly doubled back onto her derriere, nearly spilling their food, had it not for Greta keeping her seated. "W-what is...?"

Greta poked her head out the back and when she eased back inside, she had a look that spoke of fear. The Sequoia was rarely cowed. "Sam Shorty's right. This _is_ the work of the Branwens."

"W-who?"

"The Branwen Gang. Biggest band of money-grubbing outlaws since Henry Plummer and the Innocents."

Pyrrha paled. "Outlaws?"

Greta held her hand. "Aww, sweetie. I didn't mean to worry you."

"I-I'm f-f-fine," the Greek stammered as she failed to stop the trembling in her fingers. Despite being a natural markswoman, the thought of engaging armed bandits head-on was terrifying. Pyrrha had been brought up in protected comfort, shielded away from the harm until a major disagreement with her parents over her wanderlust brought her to the place where danger was likeliest.

"Hey, now. We're gettin' out of here. We're safe, 'ya hear?"

Pyrrha nodded. "Yes, yes. Safe. We're safe."

Greta smiled a bit. "You know, I'd rather take on that Torchwick fella rather them Branwens."

The Greek furrowed her brow. "Isn't he that English bank robber?"

"Yeah. Slick and smarmy as Jesse James."

"Um, how is this helping?"

Greta chortled, bringing a bit of normalcy back to the fore. "I'm sayin' that he's easier to deal with 'cause he's only one man. Well, technically he got a partner but two against ten ain't gonna work out for him."

Pyrrha shrunk into her shoulders. "If you put it that way..."

"I'm just tryin' to lighten up the mood, honey. Momma Sequoia ain't gonna let some pompous ne'er-do-well mess with her litter," the larger woman declared, flexing her miner's muscles.

The timid redhead laughed at her antics. "That's relieving."

* * *

It was well into the evening when the circus arrived at Beacon. Despite many of the townsfolk having already retired for the night, half the town was awake as the many lanterns paved the way to the ornately decorated Crow's Nest Saloon where Pyrrha basked in the sculptures, the art deco, and the fluffy clean linens of her own rented room.

Having finally a space to herself, she unceremoniously flopped onto her bed without worry of being chastised for 'unladylike behavior.' She kicked off her boots and raised her bare feet over her head, savoring the freedom and caring less about anyone walking through the door to be greeted by the sight of her silk-covered derriere.

If her bed had been a plot of snow, she would have had already carved a snow angel. Pyrrha felt very relaxed in a long while. Tomorrow was the start of a week of round-the-clock shows. That meant more than standing still and shooting at clay targets all day. There was setting up the tents, building the stage, running errands. A lot of moving about. The lack of appropriate stagehands meant that even the performers had to chip in to prop up their bazaars.

As Pyrrha stood up from her bed, she overheard Mister Van Der Flynt conversing with someone outside. Down below, through her window, cast under the dim lighting was her boss and a handful of others she did not recognize. Townsfolk, maybe.

One of them was dressed immaculately, adorning glistening spectacles and sporting an ornate cane. Probably the mayor? He seemed to carry himself as such. Beside him was a younger man, almost youthful in appearance despite the stubble. Blonde, blue-eyed, and sleepy—he was yawning, trying to stay awake and apathetically holding up an oil lamp.

She couldn't blame him. It was the late hour and she herself needed to get to bed even though she had slept half the day away.

The young man caught her eye and Pyrrha noticed how he quickly straightened himself. He smiled and waved at her. She waved back. He was handsome. It was a passing thought that she soon dropped so she could enjoy a nice lovely bath in her own porcelain tub.

Wealthy, accommodating, and warm. Beacon, so far, had not disappointed.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 24, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: December 3, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 3, 2018**


	3. Chapter 3 - Couriers

Pale clouded mountains. Serene ocean. A fist to the face, knee to the gut, and a dirty bag over his head as his arms were pressed uncomfortably behind his back.

Lie Ren screamed. But it was useless. He was dragged to his feet in his forced blindness and forced up the gangway to the damning ship that he knew would take him forever away from his homeland, from his parents, from his own people. A one-way trip to the arid expanse of dry desert that demanded unending railways to be laid down, towns to be built, an altar of sandstone and granite yearning for his blood to be spilt over its hungry cracks...

Shouting. Lots of shouting. And shoving.

He stumbled onto the deck, received a boot to his stomach, and rolled down to the steps like a barrel into the abyss of where his new masters kept their slaves. A single lantern hung in the ceiling only to be smothered by the faceless American foreman.

"Next stop: California!"

* * *

Chinese postal courier Lie Ren awoke with a start. And quickly calmed himself. He steadied his breathing before he was assaulted by his only friend out here in this corner of the known world.

" _S_ _ø_ _ren_! I was going to wake you," chirped his smiling Norwegian partner Nora Valkyrie. Her brows tilted as she took in his mien. "Bad dream?"

He smiled at her and patted her on the head. "Nothing to concern yourself with."

"You sure? You look...really uncomfortable."

"I'm fine." Ren slipped off the hammock he tied between the two poles in the stables and slipped on his boots. He reached over to open his satchel hanging off a nail next to their tethered horses. "Do you have them?"

"Yep! Here you go!" Nora handed him his share of the mail to be delivered to their next stop. Then, in one swing of her leg, she was already on her saddle and riding the animal out the doors. "Come on! It's a long way to go!"

He nodded, making a quick check of the bags that carried their packages, the words 'Postal Service' stenciled onto the side. He hauled himself over his steed and adjusted the reins. One hand slid down to his holster if only to feel a sense of security. The cold steel grip of his revolver never brought so much comfort.

"Do you have your gun with you?" he asked his partner.

She blew her lips at him while turning her own mount slightly to showcase the glinting hilt of her pistol jutting out from her hip holster. " _Selvf_ _ø_ _lgelig_!"

Ren laughed throughout their brief gallop out the stables. He returned the wave of the postal workers idling on the porch with a tilt of his hat. Their horses carried on in steady strides until they were out of the town. The road wound down into the near endless horizon of mountain and desert.

" _Ha det_ , Vacuo! _Sees nart_!" bade Nora with her exaggerated waves, as the small town on the fringe of Vacuo County shrunk behind them.

Ren could only shake his head at her antics. While vexing to many, it was one of the many little comforts he enjoyed. Nora's jolly optimism was revitalizing. That and her many imaginative tales and ridiculous challenges that almost always were birthed on the height of the moment.

"Hey, Ren! Let's race!"

Okay, so maybe they were not as ridiculous. They were quite fun, nonetheless. Not so reckless—not all the time—but still greatly enjoyable. He slapped his reins. "Yes. Let us."

And they galloped freely through the desert.

"Woohoo! Vale County, here we come!"

* * *

The farmhouse was abandoned.

Ren was sure. He checked twice. No bodies. A lot of animal bones, though. Most of anything valuable was already taken a long time ago. The windows were cracked and shattered, most likely target practice for travelers and bandits. What had once been a windmill had collapsed on itself, leaving nothing but a jagged wooden tower. All in all, a fine shelter.

Probably the only reason anyone still cared about this landmark was the well in the back of the property. The reservoir was deep with more than enough water to last years. Or so he had heard.

With their horses tethered to a pole, the two mail carriers for the United States Postal Service entered the derelict building and sat down on the dusty table to have lunch. And immediately, Ren could tell something was off.

Nora was not as chatty as she normally was. She was subdued, glances thrown at every minor detail around them. Nibbles slow, grip tight on her bread.

"Nora. Are you feeling well?"

She flashed him a quick smile. He caught the hints of sadness in it.

"Nora, please. What is the matter?"

Her cheer fragmented and she closed her eyes to breath deep. "I...had a dream last night. It was about...it was about the railroads."

His shoulders slumped. The railroads. A not so distant memory that the both of them still struggled to put behind them. Being forced to lay down tracks and hammer them in place day in, day out. Under the grueling eye of their cruel taskmasters. Along with many immigrants who were unfortunate enough to be relegated to this line of work. Underpaid, unpaid, undernourished, malnourished...

All to ferry luxurious trains filled with gold, silver, and other expensive commodities to elites in the wealthier cities. All that effort for rich to indulge themselves...if the trains were not constantly hijacked by bandits and raiders.

"Ah...I see."

"I'm sorry," she mouthed. "I didn't mean to bring it up. It was that...this one was so...real that I thought...I thought we were back working there."

Ren reached over when she started to sob. He knew she hated it. He, too, despised it. Yet, at the time, what else could they have done? They were under guard by hired guns, many of whom were very liberal with their views on 'chinks' and other undesirables 'stealing their labor.'

Though, he did try to look at the positive side of it. The back-breaking word stiffened his muscles, taught him valuable lessons on survival in a sea of foreigners, though many of whom were his fellow Chinese. It was a sad case for Nora, however. Being one of the few Europeans made to work cheap labor singled her out as a unique source of entertainment from the guards.

It was tolerable to a point. Until one went too far and he stepped in. They had never been so ruthlessly pursued in their whole lives than they were in that point in time. The Pinkertons stopped after a while. But the bounty hunters were relentless.

Until one man in particular cornered them in a dry cave at the bottom of a jagged canyon. Ren stood defiantly with his grip tight on the wooden branch plucked from the riverbed, Nora covering her eyes and weeping behind him. The man hesitated. And smiled. The revolver spun in his grip with handle taking the place of the barrel.

'I'm impressed,' he said gruffly. 'Take my shooter. It's yours now, kid.'

Perhaps it was mercy. Or he saw them as insignificant, forgettable. He would never forget his face and his kindness. The young Chinese man reluctantly accepted the gift, the weapon soon coming to rest in his holster today.

'Don't shoot yourself in the foot,' were the stranger's parting words.

Ren blinked and he found his own arms wrapped around her, feeling her quake in his embrace while her tears soaked his tunic. Yes, those memories were grim.

But they learned much from it. He became stronger. And so did she. Literally, she could lift a hammer twice her size with how she was made to drive in the rivets and bend errant steel with the rickety tools they were given.

Now, he could feel her toned arms shudder under him.

"Are you feeling better?" he whispered into her ear.

" _Ja_...I am. _Takk for det_."

"You are welcome."

* * *

They were surrounded. In a manner similar to what he had learned of how the Apache tribes would corner their prey, the two mail carriers were caught at a severe disadvantage, tactically and numerically. Ren had drawn his gun as did Nora as they tried to stay on their saddles and keep the horses from going berserk.

Peeking above on the rocks flanking this narrow ridgeway were bandits. The red and black strips of cloth covering their faces and adorning their arms were clear indications of who they were...and how deadly they could be.

Strangely, no shots were fired. Yet.

Ren grit his teeth. This was not how he intended his end to be. If it were so, if he had been fated to be slain by greedy thieves, then so be it. He prayed to the gods that they would spare Nora. Or let her flee. Or they be merciful to her in the event he would fail to protect her. There were only so much six bullets could do.

"At ease, all of you!" echoed the mighty voice of an older woman.

The bandits slacked their hold on their guns. Out of fear. Or respect. It was a clear order from their leader, an imposing lady in a dark red dress, her black long coat fluttering in the wind, revealing two large holstered revolvers and the hilt of a sword on her hip. Long, unkempt hair dangled down her back as she leveled them, her own face concealed behind a white and red kerchief.

Ren heard her click her tongue. In annoyance?

"Mail carriers. Let them be."

"Aye, ma'am," reciprocated one of the bandits, an Irishman.

"You're lucky," the woman bellowed. "I do not bestow such mercy. Be grateful you still work for the Postal Service."

The Chinese courier could only growl back up at her. To which she seemed to smirk under that cloth. She snapped her fingers. And one by one, the bandits retreated behind the rocks, vanishing as easily as they had appeared.

Ren was rigid for a moment until he heard Nora say his name. He looked to her, seeing the pistol shaking in her grip, the fear evident in her wide green irises. He holstered his own and grabbed her wrist. "Quick! We have to go, now!"

She nodded and snapped the reins. They galloped out of that death trap as fast as they could. The relief was intoxicating when they broke out of the canyon, finally seeing the iconic clock tower of Beacon in the far distance where they were supposed to drop off this mail.

Ren rested his hand on her shoulder. "Nora. We are almost there."

His partner was still shaken. "Was that...were they...?"

He exhaled. Was it wise to ignore that brush their death? It was not the first time. Nor would it be the last. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a small voice echoed that they would meet that woman and her posse again. He was not looking forward to it.

"Ren...w-was that t-the..."

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes."

Ren brought his steed closer so he could wrap his free arm around her and pull her in. He adjusted her hat and wiped the dirt off her cheeks. He gave his best assuring smile, if only to silence her unease...as well as his own.

Harrowing as it was, very few people in the West could rightfully say they were spared by the infamous Branwen Gang.

* * *

They rode unsteadily into an on-going fair. A row of colorful bazaars were set up around a large circular tent adorned with ribbons. People came and went, indulging in the sights and sounds of whatever traveling circus happened to stop by.

Nora, being who she was, would have leapt at the opportunity and drag him off to see the acrobats, the magic shows, and the oddities of the world. But after what they had been through...

They tethered their horses in the stables and deposited their packages at the post office, signing off on the paperwork and freeing themselves for the rest of the day. Ren stepped out onto the street with Nora in tow. Dusk was setting and people were hanging oil lamps outside their doors. Many more were out and about, some fresh from the mines, trudging along in their dirty boots and pickaxes and shovels.

The rest were off to the fair.

Nora tugged at his arm. The smile she wore was small yet a sign of recovery from their harrowing experience. He beamed back at her. "Would you like to visit the attraction?"

She held up a fistful of dollars. "We have enough money for tickets."

* * *

Of the many things he had witnessed in his life, Ren was not expecting to be wowed by the impeccable accuracy of the young, elegantly dressed lady on the stage. With practiced pose and unwavering confidence, she reduced the many clay targets to dust. Never once missing. Never once faltering.

Nora was cheering on. Wildly. So wildly, in fact, that the young blonde man beside him had to tap his arm while his finger rubbed his ear. "Is your friend always this loud?"

"Unfortunately," Ren replied with a look that conveyed his sympathies to him.

"Oh. Well, I hope I don't go deaf, then," he said with a meek chuckle.

The Chinese courier nodded politely. "I remind her every now and then."

He received a shrug. Contrary to what he expected. Most people gave him dirty looks or downright expressed their displeasure at such a disturbance. At least this man was not quick to judge. Not yet, maybe. "Eh, I grew up with seven sisters. You don't have to apologize."

Ren raised his brow. Seven sisters? Even back in China, that many children to a man and a woman would be troublesome, imperial taxes notwithstanding. "Ah. That is much appreciated. Thank you for understanding."

"No problem," he said with a warm smile before returning to the show, his smile bursting into a grin as the young lady bowed to the enthralled audience.

"... She is very skilled," Ren commented after she had shot down several flying pots in quick succession.

"Yeah. Pyrrha's a master with that rifle of hers," he reciprocated. "And it's not just a rifle. She's as good with pistols too. Pretty much any other gun. Not so much a shotgun but she can still land a shot."

Ren turned to the young man with a raised brow. "Those are interesting details that I have not heard from the show master."

He scratched the back of his head. "Eh, heh, well...you see, I know her. I helped out in setting this up 'cause they needed some extra hands and, well, I ran into her and we got along. She even showed me a bunch of tricks."

An orange blur sped over his lap. Too late to stop Nora now. "Are you her lover!?"

The man recoiled. "W-what!? No! I, uh, I'm her friend!"

"Nora," Ren drawled, pulling her off him and getting her seated. He was sure some people in the audience were glancing at them. "I may have to apologize for that."

"Uh, n-no problem," the blonde answered shakily. "Why don't we enjoy the rest of the show?"

"Of course. Nora, please behave."

"Aww, Renny!"

"Please?"

With a pout, the Norwegian girl slumped back with her hands folded. It did not last for long. Another round of shots and she was gripping the bannister loudly expressing her admiration for Pyrrha Nikos.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 4, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: January 2, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 2, 2019**

 **NOTE: Originally, this was supposed to be entitled 'Shanghai-ed' because I thought that Shanghai-ing was when Chinese men in Shanghai were kidnapped to serve as slave crews on Western ships. Turns out it was the opposite...sort of.**

 **Anyway, I had already drafted the first part by then so I thought I'd keep it. Creative liberties, I guess.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _S_ _ø_ _ren_! = Dang it! [Norwegian]**

 ** _Selvf_ _ø_ _lgelig_! = Of course! [Norwegian]**

 ** _Ha det_ , Vacuo! _Sees nart_! = Goodbye, Vacuo! See you soon! [Norwegian]**

 _ **Ja … Takk for det**_ **. = Yes … Thank you for that. [Norwegian]**


	4. Chapter 4 - Bank Robbery

To say that the whole town woke up would have been literally fitting.

Being the early bird, Jaune was one of the first witnesses—and a hapless victim—of the daring bank robbery taking place in the middle of town. He had been running errands for the blacksmith, namely carting his wagonload of ores from the mine entrance to the forge when the force of several sticks of dynamite going off knocked him onto his rear.

How unlucky did he have to be passing directly in front of the portico at that exact moment?

He was still picking himself up from the ground, his ears painfully ringing, when the first shot was fired that triggered the massive gunfight that engulfed the whole town. Over half of Beacon's militia scrambled out of their beds to confront the daring thieves.

Jaune wiped away the dirt from his eyes in time to see what was left of the bank's glass windows shatter into pieces by the bullets whizzing past his head. Reflex kicked in and he dropped onto his belly, scrambling to take cover behind the overturned wagon he had been dragging a minute before. To his disdain, however, he happened to end up on the wrong side of the firing line. He could tell from the smoking barrels of a handful Winchester rifles poking out the windows and firing back at the militia.

Amid the noise, he somehow picked out someone sighing.

"Truly worth every penny, you lot," said person groaned in a thick English accent.

Jaune gazed at the tall ginger-haired man dressed in a white pristine suit and dark bowler hat leaning haphazardly on his cane, puffing out a large cloud from his cigar, seemingly unfazed by the whole fiasco. He looked familiar, as though he had seen him somewhere before...tacked on the walls around here...handsome smile skillfully sketched on countless wanted posters...

Oh hell.

"People, people!" he called, his British inflection displaying a level of arrogance and charming authority that encapsulated the townsfolk and—in some magical way—calmed the shootout. "Let us be logical here! Are you willing to so far as risk the lives of innocents over smelted bars of precious earth?"

The blonde blinked. Seriously? Was this guy a wizard or something? Why did the people stop shooting? He was standing there! In plain view! Someone shoot him down now or—

"Eep!"

Oh. That explains.

"Wise choice, everyone," smugly barked Mister White. Beside him was forced out a young girl, probably of the same age as his younger siblings, with short black hair ending in red tips. Her hands were held tightly behind her back by another woman of similar height in a cream dress and twirling a folded parasol.

Jaune cannot be seeing things. This was absurd. Ridiculous. Very real and dangerous. He gulped when the girl being held hostage met his eye.

"H-hey! A little help here!" she squeaked.

"Well, well, who do we have here?"

Oh, goddamn it.

A robber leapt out, his face mostly obscured by a black kerchief. Jaune gawked awhile at the double barrels of a shotgun hovering over his face before registering the guy behind it yelling at him to get up with his hands in the air. Which he did. Shakily.

Now there were two hostages. Great.

Jaune was forced to stand alongside the younger girl. He was stiff from fear and stiffer now that someone was pressing a gun to his back. His fate now rested in the hands of strangers. Granted, half of Beacon were no strangers to him after all that he had been doing over the past couple weeks. Still, most of the people with the guns knew only his name and that he was just an extra pair of hands Miss Goodwitch picked up from somewhere.

Mister Suits dragged long on his cigar before he once more addressed the crowd. "Now, if you'll excuse us! We shall be departing."

"Make another step and we're gunning you down!" someone hollered.

"Ah-ah," deflected the Englishman. "I dare say , are you willing to risk the lives of two vigorous youths who have yet to see the world? These two who have the power to shape the future! And believe me, they can. If...they are to survive today."

And that was when Jaune realized his true worth to the town. Only a handful lowered their guns. Everyone else kept steady aim. It seemed he had not been doing enough; his reputation held squat with his name probably worth a spittoon or two. After all that he'd done, after all that he'd been doing...

Wow.

He felt crushed. Worthless. Hopeless. After surveying most of the people around him, he allowed his head to dip dejectedly. Now he wished someone shoot him now to spare the pain of his value to the townsfolk. Something warm snaked around his hand and he glanced to his right where his fellow captive was giving him her most encouraging smile. Or something like that. She was trying to lighten his mood, that was for sure. And he appreciated it despite how upset he was right now.

"I see that we have come to a mutual understanding," yammered Mister White. "Now, if you will excuse us, we shall requisition a generous amount of funds—"

Bang!

Jaune jerked his head upwards. Someone took the shot. And the outlaw pressing the gun to his back loudly recoiled from the bullet splintering into his shoulder.

* * *

Pyrrha was an entertainer, not an enforcer.

Alas, circumstance forced her hand and her she lay on the roof of a two storey house directly across from the bank where the infamous Roman Torchwick and his posse of miscreants had staged a daring robbery. Complete with enough dynamite to blow off the doors and enough bullets to hold off the whole militia. It was a frightening, if not amazing, show to be a witness to.

She would have sat this one out. Stayed in her room at the inn and let the authorities handle it. Her safety came first above all else. Unfortunately, she was too groggy from having been rudely woken up so early in the day that she caved in to her curiosity and stepped outside to see what was going on. And that was when one of the townsfolk spotted her, recognized her, and handed her a Winchester repeater and a box of bullets.

"Missy, you're the best I've ever seen with them guns and right now we could use your shootin' skills," he gasped at her. Then he directed her to a ladder which she was forced to climb—while clenching her rear tight because she was still in her morning gown—with two other men.

And here she was. On her belly, the barrel of her rifle sticking through a hole in the signage. She would have protested. She would have handed the gun back. Vehemently insist that the proper authorities should be taking care of this, not her.

But she then saw Jaune. Sharing his captivity with a younger girl beside him. Holding hands.

"Shit. That sum'bitch has hostages," a militiaman growled. "Think you can shoot the bastard, Miss Nikos?"

"But then they're gon' shoot the hostages," argued the other man. "Let her shoot the guy holdin' the other guy while we take out Torchwick."

Pyrrha felt her heart race as fast as her mind juggled the suggestions. She had never killed before. The only thing she had ever harmed were birds, snakes, and the occasional hungry coyote. If possible, she would have let someone else deliver the coup de grace. Never in her life had she considered the thought of willingly shooting another person, let alone the prospect of taking their life intentionally. She was a circus shooter, not a bloody murderer!

Yet here she was. About to become the latter.

"They gon' leave! Take the shot, missy!"

"Shoot the bastard!"

Pyrrha blinked, took a deep breath, centered that iron ridge on her target, and fired.

* * *

Jaune dropped the ground as soon as all hell broke loose again. He snapped his head to his right and saw his fellow hostage lying next to him. Eyes wide and deathly shaken. Her hand still holding tight onto hers. When she looked back up at him, silver eyes fearfully glistening against the morning sun, instincts kicked in and he dragged her with him behind the overturned wagon.

"This way!" he barked.

Whether it was the Arc blood or his base human desire to survive, something within him took over and he determinedly crawled with her in tow. Then he got up to his knees and hobbled. Flakes of wood and concrete splintered around them until he clicked his heels and ran for it. Taking her along with him.

"Ow, ow, ow!"

"Come on, we're almost there!"

He darted directly across the street with the desperate finesse of an evicted beaver. Towards the General Store. Where a group of miners had taken up positions with their pistols. He ignored their yelping, leaping directly behind them and bursting right through the door. And that was when he felt the full weight of the girl he rescued bearing down on his back as he tasted the dusty oak of the floor.

* * *

Pyrrha was behaving mechanically at this point.

Aim. Shoot. Cycle. Aim. Shoot. Cycle.

Eventually, the hollow click from an empty chamber knocked her out of her trance and she withdrew the rifle so she could survey her handiwork on the street below: four unmoving bank robbers with tiny dark rivers trickling down their legs from the holes bored into their chests.

She felt nothing in that moment, even though the two militiamen she was with were vigorously clapping her on her shoulders, commending her for being a 'real crack-shot.'

Pyrrha, however, had no words to say. Her mind had been wiped as clean as a blank book. Her distant gaze tracked Roman Torchwick and his female sidekick making for the stables. She sat there, watching them, cradling the empty gun, never bothering to reload while the men hooted and fired blindly at the fleeing thieves.

* * *

"Renny, I think they're coming this way!"

"Nora, stay here!"

The stable doors burst open despite Ren's attempts to keep them sealed. In the wake of the splinters, the two thieves skidded against the hay-laden muck where they stared down the pair of postal couriers.

Ren drew his gun only for it to be knocked off his hand by the short woman with the parasol. She was fast and followed up with a kick to his chin, sending him flying hard into a pillar. He made to get up but ended up with her boot colliding with his side with an audible crack.

"Ren!"

"Neo, ignore them!" ordered the tall man in the white suit. "Grab the horses!"

"Hey!" Nora cried, running in front of the woman. "Stop right there!"

"Sorry, darling," the Englishman cooed, "but we must heed the call of the wild. Now please, step aside lest my partner render unneeded harm to you."

To reinforce his point, the lady raised her parasol at the Norwegian girl. Nora could see between her eyes the hollow barrel of a firearm. She traced the shaft over the folded sheet of umbrella to where her foe had her finger on a concealed trigger. Panic flowed into her mind, deluding her momentarily into the illusion that she was back in the canyon...trapped by the Branwen Gang...at the mercy of outlaws who had free will to kill them.

Nora froze by then. She felt her body grow cold and numb.

"Good girl. Onto the saddle now, Neo! Our appointment with the wilderness has been delayed long enough."

The Norwegian stared dumbly at this Neo woman smirking back at her, stepping back to the horses where she easily slid atop the saddle of a white destrier. She tucked away her parasol, gave her a wink, and rode out the stable doors with the man in the white suit.

Nora stood there in frozen silence. Mouth agape, tongue dry. She stared at the two thieves disappear in their own dust cloud. She continuing staring until the rest of the militia came in hollering and checking up on her and Ren who had recovered enough to lean against the wall.

"...hey, hey, kid!"

She blinked. "Huh?"

"Hey, 'ya alright? 'Ya hurt?" asked a stout man with a shotgun. "Can 'ya hear me, missy?"

Nora nodded excessively, mainly to shake away the jitters that had somehow gripped her so sufficatingly tight. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

The man cracked a toothy grin. "That's a relief! That Torchwick fella must'a messed with you, huh. I can't blame 'ya, kid. Sometimes, 'ya wanna do somethin' then 'ya can't feel 'yer legs. He din' touch 'ya, din' he?"

She shook her head. "No, no, he didn't." Then her eyes landed on her partner. " _Faen_! Ren!"

Nora skidded over to her friend who grimaced as he gripped his side.

"Nora?" he ground out.

"Ren! _Herregud_ , are you alright!? Are you hurt?"

He smiled weakly back up at her. "Not as bad. Still painful."

"We need to get you to a doctor," interjected a blonde woman whose steely green eyes bore motherly concern from behind a pair of clean spectacles. Her morning dress was sullied around the edges but given that this all kicked off at the crack of dawn, who could blame her? Half the people crowding around them looked fresh out of bed!

"Is he going to be alright?" Nora asked.

"We need to get you and him to the clinic," she replied, helping Ren up to stand. "Come now. Take it easy."

Though she had come to accept herself as a loud girl hungry for adventure, Nora had to consider that she may have gotten more than what she bargained for. While they may have survived the saga of their flight from bounty hunters, it did not mean she came out of it unscathed. She still had nightmares about those cold nights and arid days, constantly hounded by dread while skirting starvation.

"What's your name, dear?"

Nora glanced at the blonde woman. "Ah, N-nora. Nora Valkyrie."

"Nora, my name is Glynda Goodwitch and I need your help with him."

" _Ja_ , _ja_ , of course," the Norwegian yawped, stumbling over to help carry Ren out the stables and to the clinic downtown. It was unnerving seeing the mess of the gunfight that had taken place and the trails of blood that marked the road from the bank...which looked as though it had been torn apart by three crates of TNT.

"Please...I can walk," Ren insisted.

"Not in this condition, you're not, young man. You may have broken your ribs," Glynda sternly argued, dragging him up to the porch where an assistant came out to receive them.

Nora, meanwhile, took in the aftermath. Shattered windows, holes in the walls, bullet casings shining all over the street. And to think she had seen her fare share of adventure in her short seventeen years. This was disturbing. What she found more disturbing, however, were the four dead bodies lined up like slaughtered pigs on display along the shelf of the mortician next door.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 5, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: January 23, 2019**

 **INITIALLY DRAFTED: January 23, 2019**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Faen**_ **! = Norwegian swear word expressing shock/surprise**

 _ **Herregud**_ **= Norwegian expression of shock/surprise**


	5. Chapter 5 - Coping

Though she may be a schoolteacher by profession, Glynda Goodwitch was an altruist by heart. She had seen enough in her life to be able to handle the ramifications of this fresh crisis with a level head, drawing back on her training and experience as an attendant for the wounded in the Union Army. Additionally, serving as the unofficial right hand of Mayor Ozpin meant having to address certain issues that her boss was 'too busy' to deal with at the time. Which happened to be most, if not all, the time.

Thus it was with great calm and domineering self-control that she reined in order to ensure that the wounded were tended to.

"Careful. He has internal injury," she noted to the assisting nurses as she laid down the wounded postal courier onto the nearest vacated bed.

As soon as she let go, he wrapped his arms around his sides, his face contorted in a painful seething grimace. There was no doubt his ribs were broken and he would need treatment soon lest he would suffer further injury brought on by shattered bone tearing him open from the inside.

"Miss Goodwitch?"

The schoolteacher turned the voice across the ward. "Jaune?"

Jaune Arc bore scrapes on his elbows and knees and a few errant tears on his clothes, the worst state she had seen him in since he was brought to her household not too long ago. He bowed his head, somehow finding it difficult to meet her directly in the eye. Glynda could guess the range of emotions running in his mind, having seen them all before in her younger years.

"Miss Goodwitch, I'm so sorry."

Oh, dear child, no. "Jaune, why are you apologizing?"

His head was bowed in an attempt to hide his quivering lip. "I got caught up in the mess...I made it difficult for the militia to capture the criminals...I became a dead weight."

Glynda sat beside him on his cot. "Nonsense. You were simply caught up in the moment. It was an unfortunate happenstance."

"Does it matter? I haven't really helped much."

"You helped save that girl over there."

Jaune looked up at her, eyes glossy from guilt. He opened his mouth to speak but followed her gaze to the fifteen-year-old girl with the red hues rising from the tips of her shoulder-length hair. She was sitting on another bed covered in dirt and scratches, nodding dumbly at the physician tending to her. He marveled at her in the moment that it took for him to compose himself.

"Y-you're right... I did save her."

"You are not a liability," Glynda declared. "Put that pessimism out of your mind, young man. You are worth more than you think. So don't bother with any of that malicious hearsay."

He nodded, appearing a bit more uplifted. "Yes, Miss Goodwitch."

"Now get some rest. You deserve it," she ordered while she withdrew her spectacles to the wipe off the morning grime.

"Thank you. You know, you really know how to stay in control when things are...going really badly."

Oh how fortunate you are to not have been caught up in the clutches of the Civil War. Glynda offered the boy a parting smile. One that hid the sadness from memories she buried under years of running a small school. "Experience is a cruel but efficient teacher."

"So I've learned," Jaune echoed long after she left him there.

Glynda Goodwitch took several steady breaths before she could continue helping tend to the others brought into the clinic.

* * *

"Oh dear God, Pyrrha!"

Greta held up her hand. "Hold it, right there, young man!"

Jaune stopped dead in the middle of the ward while Pyrrha was ushered into her own corner by her fellow circus performers. The look he caught her sporting was...haunting. "Pyrrha? W-what happened? Was she hurt?"

"She ain't hurtin' on the outside," growled the bulky Sequoia woman.

"Wh-what do you mean, ma'am?"

Greta turned to him. Anger burned behind her chestnut eyes. They softened slightly at his apparent shock but the emotion still lingered with her toned chest and bulky arms bulging against his lanky frame. "She can put the army's best shooters to shame. But unlike them...she's never taken a human soul."

Oh. Oh, dear Pyrrha, no.

Jaune heard sniffling.

Pyrrha was crying. She cradled her arms around her chest, hugging herself tight in an attempt to make herself as small as possible. Despite the attempts of the entertainers she was with, there was no doing away with the apparent damage done to her mind and soul. There on the bed sat a girl skilled with tools made to take the lives of others...broken by the very act she was sheltered from.

It was a painful sight. Pyrrha was such a humble girl harboring a timid heart shrouded in an outward desire to see more of the world. To be introduced so bluntly to the unforgiving reality of the frontier... He guessed she was not prepared for it as she thought she was. She probably was not expecting it to begin with.

Jaune took slow breaths. He knew to an extent how to deal with a troubled lady. He put one foot in front of the other until he was close enough for her to hear him.

"Pyrrha?"

The entire circus troupe turned towards him. He gulped at the weight of their gaze.

"Who're you supposed to be?" demanded the short man with the long beard.

"Go easy on him, Sam," Greta intoned. "He's that boy she's been seeing."

Jaune was about to correct her on that but was shoved forward to the edge of the bed by the large woman. He gripped the sides of the mattress to keep from stumbling to end up face first with the puffy, tear-stricken face of his friend.

"... Jaune?"

He wiped his hands out of habit before he reached over to cup hers. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

Pyrrha sniffled. And faster than a cow let loose from the barn over winter season, she threw her arms around him and buried herself into his shoulder, sobbing all the more. She tried to say something, coming off with garbled words that sounded like a poorly rehearsed apology. She repeated unintelligible mantra over and over until he reciprocated her embrace.

"There, there," he soothed into her ear, patting her on the back.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

Jaune simply let her weep. He knew what he was doing. However, he had no idea what else he had to say. Hugs spoke louder than words. So when it came to speak, he uttered the first thing that came to his addled mind. And in a way, it made them both feel a little better.

"I'm sorry, too..."

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Jaune stared up from his lunch to be all the more surprised and confused by the young girl with the red tips in her hair. She was very timid, trying to make herself smaller than she already was, her gaze never once meeting his. She was feeling guilty. Much like he was.

"For what?" he asked her.

The girl stared at him in her own shock. The first thing that struck him were her eyes. They were glistening not just from tears that were threatening to breakthrough. Rather, her pupils shone as bright as molten nickel. Or silver.

"For what?" she repeated. "I...I got you into trouble...I got in trouble...with the bandits."

The blonde boy wished Miss Goodwitch was still here. She knew the right words to say. Because he honestly could not replicate exactly what she said to make him feel better. Goodness knows, she was beating herself up for what transpired more than he had. He still felt bad about being such a liability but this girl had been smack dab in the middle of it.

"Uh, no! You don't have to," he said nervously. "It...it was all bad happenstance."

"Bad happenstance, huh," she sniffled. "I tried to be a hero. I tried to stop them. They...they didn't know I was in the bank when they broke in. I thought maybe I could help..."

"And you did," Jaune said, trying to lighten up her mood. "You ruined their heist!"

"It turned into a gunfight! And four people are dead. Because of me..."

"It was their choice to go out like that," he ended up saying. "It wasn't your fault they did something stupid that it killed them. It's not my fault either that I just happened to pass by when they blew up the front porch."

Ruby wiped her face to stare at him. "You think so?"

"Of course, I do!" Or so he liked to think. Perhaps Miss Goodwitch rubbed off on him. He actually said something that she would have said to fix this. Somewhat. At least she was feeling better about herself. To make her stay that way, he spoke first before she could berate herself. "Pardon me for asking. What exactly were you doing inside the bank that early in the morning? It was barely the first working hour of the day."

She fiddled with the frills on her dress. "I...saw them break in... I followed them. I thought...maybe I could stop them before they try anything. Guess that didn't work out how I planned it, huh."

He blinked. "You tried to stop them?"

"No one was around and if there was someone there, they weren't doing anything. Someone had to do something," she defended.

Oh bless her heart, this girl. Jaune was genuinely amazed by her determination. Even if it was foolhardy. She reminded him of himself in a way, particularly the reasons why he went on cattle drives with his old man. Not just to help the family farm, not only to see the world, but also to help those along the way. They were all folks trying to make a living out here.

"That's...real thoughtful of you," he mused.

"Yeah. Stupid plan."

Jaune saw the dam leaking and quickly changed the topic. "Hey, um, we haven't really been acquainted. I'm Jaune Arc, by the way."

And like that, she lit up. For the first time since he saw her, she smiled. Granted, it was a bit sad but it was still a smile. "Ruby Rose."

He extended his hand. She awkwardly shook it. They both glanced away, not knowing exactly how to follow up an uneasy introduction.

Jaune cleared his throat. He was never good with girls. Outside of his family, Pyrrha was merely a stroke of luck while that postal courier Nora seemed a little too loose in the head to stay away from. As far as he knew, the best thing to revitalize a stalling conversation was to talk about whatever he was looking at. Which happened to be her face.

"Your name fits you. Because of your, you know, rosy cheeks and all."

Said rosy cheeks became rosier. She shrunk even more. "Oh, um, th-thanks. I-I d-didn't th-think you w-would n-n-notice."

Great. Now he was nervous. After all, he did save her. He was her hero. She was the damsel in distress. It was a perfect fairy tale encounter. Except, this was not a fairy tale. This was the aftermath of a gruesome attempt at a bank robbery spectacularly foiled by the competent Beacon militia. That and there were four dead men in the mortuary next door.

"Uh, it was no problem, heh, hah," he stammered, dropping the wooden ladle was he was eating off of onto the floor. "Oh, crud."

A squeaky giggle.

Jaune stared at Ruby. She stopped herself. "Um, have you eaten?"

"I was about to get some then I saw you...and I thought maybe I should apologize first."

"I told you. You don't have to," he deflected. This girl was bent on trying to make it up to him. The thought brought some of that missing confidence back. "But if you insist, how about I get you a serving and you can sit with me?"

"Y-you want me to sit with you...and eat with you?"

"Why not? You're not a stranger. And my mom said that strangers are friends you've never met yet."

"Oh. That's...something." Her voice dropped. "Your mom sure knows the right words to say."

Jaune was already on his feet and rounding the table he at one point had all to himself. He pulled up a stool and ushered her to sit. "I'll go get you your lunch. Would you like beef stew or beef stew?"

Ruby chuckled at that one. "What else is there?"

"Beef stew it is."

* * *

Nora was aware of her stubbornness and was proud of it for the most part. She refused to leave Ren's side, holding his hand while he rested from the treatment...or whatever the doctor did. She hoped they would not have to cut him open. That would be bad and there was no way of knowing if he would come out of that in one piece.

She never trusted doctors. Much.

So she became an eyesore and an eventual pain to the attending nurses. But she did make herself useful. Get this, grab that, help put pressure here, do not touch that. Simple instructions that necessitated her being a presence in the ward. So here she was, manning the food line and making sure everyone got a fair portion of their lunch for the day. It was a good enough reason not to kick her out of the building and away from Ren.

She had nowhere else to go without him. She could try drinking at the saloon but she never did like liquor. The times that she did lose herself to drink...were fairly unpleasant. Thank God Ren was there to rein her in!

No. She was staying with her friend. She was not going to leave his side. Except when to go to the latrine or go pick up something to eat and drink. She would even sleep sitting on this stool or flat on the floor even. That blonde guy—Jaune, she recalled his name was—who knew that circus sharpshooter Pyrrha Nikos was going to spend the night here even though he was cleared to leave so why not her?

Speaking of Jaune, he was back in front of the stew pot about to fill up another bowl. What happened to his old one? Oh. It was for that girl over there. The one who got caught up in the middle of the robbery.

Yeah.

Nora couldn't blame the poor girl for ending up as a hostage. She could understand what she was feeling. Ren was indirectly hurt by this affair but it was the fault of that mean criminal lady, not that young girl sitting by herself waiting for...her lunch.

Oh, that's right.

"Um, Nora, right?"

Nora blinked back at Jaune. "Yay! You remembered me!"

"Uh-huh. Yeah," he nodded nervously. "Um, can you fill up my bowl? You're holding the ladle really tight."

The Norwegian loosened her grip and stirred up a nice serving. Before he could turn away, she grabbed his arm and said, "You can tell her that it's not her fault."

Jaune was surprised. "I—"

"It's not your fault, too. It's not Pyrrha's fault either. Things like this happened because it did. That girl had bad luck, I guess. You too." Nora met his gaze with the most supportive grin she could muster. "I understand. Ren would understand, too. I heard that you saved her and yourself from those outlaws. I heard what Pyrrha did and I know that she had to do what was right. So please...don't blame yourselves for all this."

She let go and he stood there. Face contorting in disbelief. Then relief. "Thank you. Nora."

"You're welcome, Jaune. Now go back over there because she's hungry."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Ruby nearly jumped when he slid the bowl under her nose. "Sorry."

"Enough apologizing," Jaune mockingly snorted as he handed her a spoon. "More eating."

"Thanks."

" _Bon appetit_."

"Bon what?"

He rubbed the back of his head. "Oh. It's French for 'enjoy the food.' Or, at least that's what I think it means."

Ruby perked up at that. "You speak French? That's great!"

"Um, not really. My lineage is French but my family moved from France a long time ago to settle here. We still try to maintain the language out of respect for the family name and our history." He sipped at his broth before gesturing at her. "How about you? Are you from around here?"

"No. I grew up in Patch, actually. It's a small farming town to the east of here. We grow a lot of corn over there and some potatoes too."

"Patch, huh." If he recalled correctly, that town was somewhere between the open plains of the next state over and the northern woodlands. Somewhere around there. His map-reading skills were still rusty. From what he knew though, the area was an ideal place for settlers seeking wide enough land to grow crops or forests big enough to shelter good game. "That's...quite the distance from Beacon."

"Yeah. Well, I really didn't plan on coming here."

Jaune raised his brow. "What exactly brought you here then?"

Ruby stopped eating, instead spending a quiet minute stirring her bowl. "... My sister Yang works at this pub in Vale. Every now and then my dad and I go visit her whenever we're in town to trade in some of our overstock. Beacon is just part of the way going there and back. But my dad knew Mayor Ozpin and Mayor Ozpin wanted me to stay here."

Really now. "Why's that?"

The girl chortled. "Well, I have a knack for taking things apart and putting them back together. It's a natural thing, they said. Mayor Ozpin liked my working prototype for a lock mechanism on safes so he wanted me to help design one for the bank here...and...you weren't supposed to know that."

Jaune stared at her. "So you weren't in the bank just to stop Torchwick's gang. You were there to check the bank's safety locks."

She twiddled with her thumbs, finding the floor very interesting. "Yeah... Sorry, I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that. Please, keep it a secret. Please, please?"

He held up his hand. He was not upset because she did not lie to him. She only withheld pertinent information. Which he perfectly understood the reasoning for. "My lips are sealed."

Ruby smiled wider than and cheerfully than he had ever seen her since he met her. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll name my patent after you!"

"You have a patent?"

"Not yet. But I hope to get my own one day! I have a lot of inventions. They're all at home but I can draw the diagrams and with the right materials, I can make some of them right here," prattled the rosy girl.

Jaune chuckled. This girl he rescued was apparently an inventor. An ambitious one if any of her ideas were to be considered for what they are. The next few hours were spent conversing on what else she could come up with and how she could make any of them work. Absurd as some of her ideas were, he did not doubt her ability to make them a reality.

* * *

It had been a long day of finding excuses to stay in the clinic. Eventually, the head physician, exhausted from dealing with her persistence, exasperatedly conceded to let her stay the night. Anything to make sure Ren would not be alone in his recovery.

"Nora?"

Nora squeezed her partner's hand. " _Ja_ , Ren?"

Ren looked groggy from his nap. A symptom of the medicine he was administered, she was told. "What are you still doing here?"

"Watching over you, silly!"

"But...you should be resting," he slurred. "It's dark outside."

She turned the knob on the gas lamp, brightening up their corner of the ward. "I am not leaving you here."

Ren was quite for a minute. A faint smile broke through to the edges of his cheeks. Followed by a resigned sigh. There was even a faint chuckle somewhere there. "You are going to have to inform our employers. We will not delivering packages for a while."

" _Fr_ _ø_ _ken_ Goodwitch already did that for us. She's scary but she's very kind and she knows what she's doing." Nora recalled the schoolteacher earlier this morning insisting adamantly that they rest while she would get the mayor to inform the Postal Service. Besides, the job of postal courier was never safe.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Ren asked her.

"The floor, silly!" Nora chirped.

He gawked at her. "... The floor?"

She waved him off. "We've slept on rocks before. I can handle a few rickety floorboards."

"With nails?"

"Eh, the caves were much worse."

* * *

The caves were much worse than this abandoned mine they sequestered themselves in. While he did not miss the dew dripping off the ceiling, he still despised the odorous air that permeated these poorly dug tunnels propped up by rotting timber and threatening to bury them all alive at any minute. Oh how low did the renowned gentleman thief Roman Torchwick sink low to find solace in such filthy, unsafe hovels carved into the earth?

"Come now, darling," cooed that vile vixen who 'hired' him. "Comforts aren't everything."

Roman would have puffed his whole lungs' worth of tobacco into her face if it were not against the proper etiquette for how men of his ilk should revere women. Instead, he turned away to exhale into the open air of their hideaway in this forgotten mineshaft on the northern fringes of Vale County.

"The gold, Roman?"

Torchwick had to rein in his foul temperament to properly address his 'superior.' "Lost to those backwater settlers, I'm afraid."

Cinder Fall frowned. Unlike the scowls of many a scorned woman, this one in particular sent shivers up his spine. She may be a foot shorter than him but she held that damning fire in her eyes that carried more than enough of a threat. If the rumors had any kernels of truth to them, he would be certain he would have ended up an added number to her tally should he ultimately cross her. Neo, as well, no matter how much his mute apprentice put up a fight.

"You disappoint me, Roman."

Then go ahead and give him the axe, why wouldn't she. "Beacon is not the only vine in the vineyard. Milady."

Cinder was not impressed. Her hand rested on her hip close to the grip of a glinting revolver bulging out of the nip in her bright red dress. Such fine Oriental silk accentuated her physique while reminding all those present of her indomitable authority. She was indeed a vixen. Alas, one that dominated the pack through sheer willpower and force. Roman felt enough of her will to know better than to experience her force.

"Beacon is the ripest vine."

"With the best gardeners on watch," sniped the thief. "Do you expect every attempt to be a success?"

She shrugged. "No, I do not. But I do expect you to do your best."

Roman raised his brow at her. "I have a mind to ask you if you have lost yours. Do you honestly expect me to try again? Rob Beacon a second time?"

"Oh darling, you're smarter than that. As you said, there are other vines in the vineyard. Beacon may be the ripest but Vale City itself is the largest in the plantation."

The cigar nearly dropped from his gaping maw. Vale City? There were marshals there. There were competent lawmen there, many of whom served with distinction in the Union Army. There was even a Pinkerton outpost there! By jove, most of the muscle for his heists came from there!

That Oriental migrant Hei Xiong may not have provided the best muscle but they were at least dependable...or expendable to an extent. To hit at his own manpower pool would be a betrayal of the highest degree. Hei Xiong would not be the only person to deny him his services as a consequence; no other outlaw would dare collaborate with him!

"You're sending me to the gallows, milady."

"That depends. You can handle yourself," she bade, sashaying away. "We're still a ways off from our target amount. Do make up for this failure."

"There is only so much loot these two hands can carry."

"You're a smart man, dear. Just get the gold."

As to why exactly, Roman did not know. He was constantly denied the reasoning for hoarding this much wealth. His best guess was perhaps an ambitious attempt to bankrupt the local economy, prompting a series of unfortunate events that would benefit no one but those smart enough to exploit the chaos for their own survival.

He could be wrong. But did his opinion matter in the grand scheme of things?

Roman dragged on his cigar while keeping an eye on his boss and her two lackeys: a native gunslinger girl with a penchant for hallucinogenic herbs and the arrogant son of a dead Confederate officer. Children, those two. Always so disrespectful of their elders. They flashed him those disparaging looks of condescension before they followed after their mistress into her private chambers.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to address his diminutive assistant. "I know, Neo. I don't like this as much as you but we cannot simply set fire to our contract."

Neo rarely ever showcased fear. The times she did, she made sure to mask with confidence. Shaky confidence as her features betrayed her. She was uncertain.

"Do not fret, my dear," he assured her as best he could. "As soon as this is over, we will be far enough away in Mexico."

The former circus performer smiled at that. Better than seeing that fearful frown that sullied her features.

Roman walked to the little alcove where many a daring plan was conceived. And discarded. He turned on the gas lamp, shining more light onto the maps laid out over the table, each one 'requisitioned' from the military archives and bearing intricate cartographic details as recorded by the Union Army. Beacon town was a failure. Vale City was next.

Success or failure, one thing was for certain: Cinder was going to be the absolute death of him.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 23, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: March 8, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 8, 2019**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Fr_ _ø_ _ken_ = Ms. [Norwegian]**


	6. Chapter 6 - Practice

Pyrrha wanted the knocking to stop. She could barely hear who was on the other side, having crumpled herself into a ball atop the furthest corner of her bed. Knees pulled up and head buried between them, she had wrapped herself up too much to bother locking her door so when it creaked open, she broke from her brooding to address her guest.

"Please, I said I don't want to be bothered—"

Her protests died in her throat when she saw Jaune standing in the doorway. There was a smaller figure she could see hiding behind his tall frame. It was the girl from yesterday, the same girl who was held hostage along with him.

"Jaune?"

"Hey, Pyrrha," he greeted. "You haven't been outside for a while. I thought maybe you needed some company. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Her mind said no but her heart said yes. She wanted company to relieve her contrition from killing four people as much as she shut others out so she could mope about killing four people. Her drive to do anything for today—or any of the coming days for that matter—had all but dried up under the withering sun of her own unforgiving conscience.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked again.

Pyrrha wanted to decline. Instead, she wordlessly nodded. While she was very much grateful that her friend was seated so close to her, she was unsure of the short rosy-cheeked girl standing uneasily by her dresser.

Jaune gestured at her. "Pyrrha, this is Ruby. She's, uh, well, you know. You remember her."

The Greek sharpshooter studied Ruby. The girl was short, petite, nervous, and clearly lacking in sleep if the dark rings around her eyes were any indication. She kept her hands behind her back while she shuffled awkwardly on the floor. Without a doubt, Ruby was bothered by yesterday's events. Much like her.

Pyrrha spoke up even when her throat was dry. "Hello."

Ruby waved shakily. "H-hi. My name's Ruby Rose. It's really nice to meet you. I, uh, I h-heard about what you did and I, um..."

The sharpshooter noticed Jaune nodding at Ruby. Before she could ask, the short girl withdrew her hands from behind her back. A small wooden box sat wrapped under her slim fingers. She opened the lid to reveal a metal cylinder pressed against a metal comb. A black marble pommel bulged off a lever to the side.

"... It's for you. I hope you like it." Ruby stammered.

"Ruby couldn't sleep," Jaune explained as she placed by her feet. "So she spent most of the night making this for you."

Pyrrha found it difficult to speak. Crude metalwork by the looks of it but when she wound the crank, the cylinder spun against the comb playing a melody that banished the doldrums. "... A music box?"

"Yeah. Not something I usually make but, um," mumbled the shorter girl. "I don't know how else to thank you..."

"You...you made this? For me?"

Jaune's laugh was weak. "Actually, the blacksmith made the mold a long time ago. Ruby found it and finished it up. I helped with a few nooks here and there. We hope you like it."

She did. She truly did. The Greek sharpshooter listened until the spool run its course to the last note. She was smiling now, her cheeks graced with happier tears. "I love it. Thank you."

"That's great!" they both cheered.

Jaune reined in his joy and held her hand, startling her. "Hey. I know what you're going through. I'm going through the same. So's Ruby. Listen, you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here for you. Ruby's here, too. She wants to help you up as much as I would."

Pyrrha's lips quivered. "B-but, I..."

"It's already done," the blonde assured her with his warm, soothing voice. "Can't mope forever, you know. So we're going to deal with this together, you hear?"

The sharpshooter breathed steadily. He was right. She should stop feeling guilty over the reality of the world. This was the Western American frontier, not the guarded hills of Athens. She eyed them both with her mouth curling up for the first time since yesterday morning.

"Yes," she declared, swinging her legs over her bed. "We shall."

* * *

Nora was not expecting any more visitors. And neither was Ren.

The two postal couriers were grateful for that Mayor Ozpin and Miss Goodwitch took time off their morning dues to personally see to their well-being at the clinic. They were, however, surprised when the town freelancer Jaune Arc, the circus performer Pyrrha Nikos, and a timid girl named Ruby Rose followed after them with a mind to see how they were doing. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to. They were concerned.

It was so heartwarming, the Norwegian had to grip hard on the edges of her stool to keep from jumping up to wrap them all in a tight hug. Mayor Ozpin smiled as he directed the three guests to their ward on his way out the door.

Nora and Ren had only met Jaune fairly recently yet he was already taking this much effort to come check up on them. Not because someone asked. Not because of pity. But because he was really worried. And so was Pyrrha, a girl she thought she could ever meet in person because of her being such a prized performer. Also tagging along with the two was this girl whose cheerful and jubilant demeanor resonated perfectly with the Norwegian.

Had Nora been exhausted, she would have wept at their goodwill. No one, not even their fellow mail carriers, had ever gone to this length for their sakes. Beacon had so far the kindest folk around. She and Ren thoroughly enjoyed the company, laughs and all.

"So how long until you're back on the saddle?" Jaune inquired, an hour into their fellowship.

"I am hoping within the week," Ren answered, bedridden but well enough to sit upright. "I am able to walk and by tomorrow, I will be allowed to roam. However, I have been strongly encouraged to rest. Preferably at the inn."

"You do not have to push yourself so hard," Pyrrha said. "Take the time to rest. I am sure your employers would understand."

Nora flinched slightly at that. Despite the existing laws regarding migrant labor, there were taskmasters out there who were not very keen on abiding by them. She had more than enough bitter memories of laying down train tracks to never simply forget such things.

Ren let out a quick chuckle. "You have a point. I personally do not want to waste good working time."

"If that's how you feel about it, how about lending a hand around town?" Jaune raised. "Nothing really heavy or backbreaking. Running errands for this and that. Like what I do. Pays much enough to keep me fed."

The Chinese mail carrier planted his chin on his fist. "There does not seem to be much labor to suit my circumstances."

"You know," drawled his bubbly partner, "we have a sharpshooter here...so if Pyrrha wouldn't mind, she could teach us how to shoot better!"

"Is that a good idea?" Jaune remarked. "I mean, Pyrrha's—"

"It's fine," the Greek chirped. "I will gladly help you improve your marksmanship."

Jaune and Ruby shared a worried glance. "Are you sure?" the latter prodded.

Pyrrha radiated a hospitable air with her meek, disarming smile. "There is not much to do with the circus closed for the next few days. The others are busy helping repair the damages to the bank. I myself am not very good with carpentry and the sorts so there is little for me to contribute."

"That's great!" Nora cheered. "We can spend the next few days learning from the master."

"I suppose we can work with that," Ren mused.

"Um, I don't have a gun," Jaune raised.

"Neither do I," Ruby added.

The sharpshooter paused in thought. "I have my rifle and my revolver. We can share. And I have more than enough bullets to spare."

The blonde freelancer rested his hand on her shoulder. "Pyrrha, you don't have to do this. You should save your money for better things."

Pyrrha beamed at him. "Nonsense. It is the best I can do to help."

Jaune scratched the back of his head. "But—"

Nora nudged him on the arm. "Come on, Jaune-Jaune! She's doing this for us. Out of the goodness of her heart. You wouldn't turn that down, would you? Besides, it helps everyone! Ren and I can learn how to shoot better and you and Ruby can learn how to shoot."

"I can shoot," Ruby squeaked in protest. She shrunk slightly when all pairs of eyes centered on her. Oh, how she wished she brought her red hooded cloak from home, the perfect solution to social embarrassment. "... My dad was a soldier. He still has his guns from the war and he taught me and my sister a thing or two."

"How often did you practice?" chirped the Norwegian.

The youngest among them awkwardly dragged the soles of her shoes across the floorboards. "... Once every...couple months."

Nora, suddenly vibrating with energy, threw her hands in the air with a loud shout. "Well, that says it! You, you, Ren, and me are going to take gun-manship lessons from Pyrrha!"

"I don't think 'gun-manship' is a word." Ren knew he was ignored even as he quietly threw in, "And it's 'Ren and _I_.'"

"I suppose that settles the matter," the Greek concluded. Highlighted by her creamy bodice with her arms neatly folded over her lap hidden under a frilly orange bustle and topped with a feathered bonnet, it would be out of anyone's mind to even think that she was highly skilled with a rifle. Then again, with the advent of personalities the likes of Belle Starr and Raven Branwen, Pyrrha's lethality with guns would come off as less of a surprise.

"This is to better defend ourselves," interjected the Chinese courier. "There is no doubt, we will be encountering more and more danger in our lives and in our livelihoods. These skills would save our lives when it comes to it."

Pyrrha nodded morosely as did Ruby. Nora beamed brighter. "Yeah, Ren gets all philosophical when he's in the mood."

"But he has a point," Jaune surrendered with a shrug. "This is for our own survival and God help us if others force our hands. Besides, what are friends for, right?"

The rest of them grunted neutrally at that. Friends. They were all friends. And friends helped each other out no matter what.

* * *

POP! PKOW! POW!

"... How did you miss?"

"I don't know!"

Ruby had minimal experience with firearms thanks to her worrywart father but even she knew that what she saw was too ridiculous to be considered a mere lack of skill. The empty whiskey bottles sat mockingly unbroken atop the rock...three paces away from the smoking barrel of Ren's revolver shaking in Jaune's grip.

"Uh, misfire?" Ren suggested sympathetically, sitting on a stool carried all the way out here while a hand cradled his sides.

"At that distance?" Nora poked. "More like he missed."

"But how did he miss?" Ruby threw in.

"I can still hear you and, to answer your question, Ruby, I don't know how," whined the blonde freelancer. "Ugh, _merde_."

Poor Jaune. Ruby could only feel sorry for him even though it was astounding how none of the targets were hit despite the distance being an inch shorter than her arm.

Pyrrha, a fragile yet patient smile tinted by red hues gracing her cheeks, stepped in, holding his hands with hers and guiding his aim. "Let's try again."

Jaune sighed. "Okay."

For all her solid control, the sharpshooter had little of any when it came to trying to be discreet about having to touch another person's hands. Let alone, a man's. Though her voice was even when relaying instructions, the way her fingers guided his betrayed her facade.

Ruby could tell. A quick glance to Ren and Nora showed they knew too.

POP!

Thwack!

Neigh. Tumble. Crunch.

"Goddamn it, son of a bitch!"

Ruby froze. As did everyone else. The bottles were still standing. The barrel was smoking. Pyrrha's hands remained clasped over Jaune's. Every face was locked in a nervous dreaded mien until five necks slowly creaked over their shoulders towards a mass that crumpled into the dirt nearby. A tall rider wriggled angrily underneath a now dead horse, the beast's eye socket eviscerated by the ricocheting bullet.

"Just my goddamn luck!" growled the unkempt man.

A familiar unkempt man.

With a familiar voice.

And a familiar silver cross dangling off his neck.

Ruby took a dry minute to swallow the lump in her throat so she could speak. "... Uncle Qrow?"

The tall, gruff, burly man that was 'Uncle Qrow' crawled out from under his stallion. Ringed, red eyes glared fiercely, bouncing from person to person only to suddenly soften at Ruby. He sighed into the ground and pulled himself up to stand on a limp.

"Ruby?" he gargled, spitting out a mix of saliva and dirt. "The hell are you doin' out here, kid? Where's Yang? Where's Tai?"

Ruby shrunk and waved awkwardly back. "Uh, y-yeah, about that, eh, hah-hah. Um...things happened?"

Qrow had a look of disbelief on his face. Even as he stood crookedly on a cracked foot, he pushed his arm into his coat and pulled out a flask. No one questioned what was in it. After a long swig, he answered, "Right. Things happened. Things just happened and all the way out here, away from Patch."

"I, uh—"

Qrow, apparently, had been drinking on the highway. He threw an accusatory finger over her shoulder towards the other four. "And which one o' you dumb sons a bitches shot my goddamn horse!?"

"It wasn't my fault, sir!" Jaune screamed in a fit of panic, holding up the incriminating gun, smoke still visibly rising from the barrel.

Ruby cringed as she held back her uncle. Pyrrha shrunk into herself while Ren kept a solid grip on Nora's wrist to keep her from doing anything impulsive.

"You goddamn son of a bitch!" Qrow flared. "You got my damn horse falling on my good leg! I'm crippled now!"

"You're not crippled," the young inventor tried to deflect. "You're just, uh, sprained?"

For a moment, it seemed Qrow was on the verge of whipping out his big irons. And that terrified Ruby as, among her circle of friends, only she knew all too well how masterful her uncle was with a gun even when drowning in drink. Then, as easily as the snap of a finger, the large man turned around, hobbled over to where the deceased beast lay bleeding, and dropped unceremoniously onto his rear. He gestured his flask at Jaune.

"You owe me a new horse, kid. And treatment for my shattered ankle, too."

Ruby sighed in relief. Thank God her uncle had a level head most of the time.

"Whew!" wheezed Nora. "To think this could get any worse."

Jaune chuckled nervously with his hand still holding tight on the gun and finger dangerously rubbing the trigger. "Yeah. Um, hey, at least it was your horse and not you, Mister Crow. I really am sorry about your horse, I—"

BANG!

Thwack.

Ka-plunk!

The flask Qrow was drinking from flew from his grasp as he recoiled his hand back. As quickly as he checked on his still in-tact fingers, he snapped at him. "Goddamn it, kid! Don't wave your six-shooter around like that when you're talking to somebody!"

"Oh God! I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"

"Shut up!"

"Please don't kill me!"

"Shut up, kid! You're giving me a headache!"

"So you won't kill me?"

"I will if you won't shut up!"

"Okay!" Ruby loudly interjected, falling on top of her uncle's hands before they reached any lower to where his pistols were holstered. "How about we take a break? Sure's been a hot day today, huh?"

Everyone was too strung up to argue.

" _Ja_!" chirped Nora with an overly enthusiastic fist pumped over her shoulder. "We'll take a break, won't we, Ren?"

Ren sighed. "Sure."

Pyrrha stammered, having failed to notice how mechanical she was standing stiffer than a Southern belle at a plantation ball. " _Na_ _í, naí, fysiká_! Rest sounds, uh, lovely!"

Jaune merely whimpered, too afraid to say anything more with the gun still in his hand.

Ruby decided it was best to address this situation with her family herself. She stooped down and grabbed Qrow's arm, pulling him up to stand. "I'll, uh, I'll take my uncle back to Beacon. To get treated for his, um, accident."

Qrow snorted at that.

"Sounds about right," agreed the Norwegian. "You go on ahead. We'll stay here and, uh, make sure Jaune doesn't shoot himself in the foot. _Lykke til_!"

The young inventor fidgeted with nervous grins and waved goodbye as she endured half the weight of her uncle over her shoulder. While she very much appreciated the arrival of her favorite uncle, she did not miss having to be on 'Qrow duty' as her father and sister often put it. It was not much different than latrine duty and Ruby had done her fair share of it growing up on the family farm with the outhouse. That was not to say that Ruby missed Qrow. She missed him greatly as he was always away doing what he did. She did not miss having to drag his drunken, crippled bum all the way back to town.

Oh well, at least he was here in Vale County. And that cheered her up even more.

* * *

"Wow. That's Ruby's uncle? He's scary."

"I'll say. He looked like he could kill me with that look he was giving me."

"You did shoot his horse."

"It was misfortunate happenstance, I'm sure."

Jaune, Pyrrha, Ren, and Nora paused to stare at the deceased stallion. A pool of blood surrounded its head, filled up from the gaping hole where its eye had once been. Already a vulture was circling overhead.

"You still have one bullet left in that chamber."

"I suppose I have one more shot," groaned the blonde freelancer as he took steady aim at the centermost bottle on the rock. The first three were just feeling for how pistols work. The next two were, as Ren put it, 'misfortunate happenstance' that happened to bounce off the environment in order to spite a passing rider with two guns larger than the one he was holding. This final one, his sixth bullet, would be his defining moment.

Or so he thought it would be if his damn hands would stop shaking.

BANG!

Thwack!

The four instinctively ducked at the feared rogue bullet. Which apparently was not rogue as it dug itself deep into the rock to chip off enough stone holding the bottles up.

Jaune watched baffled as the three whiskey glasses tumbled off the abused granite and fell onto the ground with the middle one finally shattering to pieces. Overhead, the vulture squawked.

He turned to his three friends with a confused grin. "That counts as a hit, right?"

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: March 8, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: March 20, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 20, 2019**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Merde**_ **= French cuss word**

 ** _Na_ _í, naí, fysiká_! = Yes, yes, of course! [Greek]**

 ** _Lykke til_! = Good luck! [Norwegian]**


End file.
